


Finding Solace Where We Stand

by Sonny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, PanFandom Naptime Comment Fic, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:42:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b><span class="u">PROMPT :</span> Supernatural, Sam&Dean&John, summer naps (PG)</b> - Really hot summer where John can't seem to find any hunts whatsoever and crashes with his boys - from <b>krystalicekitsu</b> on LJ</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Solace Where We Stand

The motel manager looks up as the front door jangles with an alert to a newly arriving customer. He clears his throat for a greeting, but once his rheumy eyes settle on the familiar face, he wobbles to the counter to hand over the collected mail of a few days.

“Winchester.” The gruff voice greets John Winchester with a lift of his white-bearded chin as he shoves over the pile of envelopes and fliers. He adjusts the osculating fan to follow him on his way over, momentarily blowing tepid air toward his tenant.

“Morton.” John's voice is extra gravelly this morning. Like he's been screaming at a rock concert for hours on end to every single known lyric. “How're _the boys_?” He's got an unwritten rule with some motel managers he's known for awhile that if the cops should come sniffing about, they're to say Dean and Sammy are their “family”. Just in case... so he never says “my boys” in public.

The gnarled stubby hands fold, entangling fingers that shake with a twinge of early senility or Parkinson's. “Oldest is helping out with some of the rooms.” Morton never bothers to learn names; it's always about character and manners. “Young'r one... well, you know he likes ta stare off inna distance or at the clear blue sky. He's a dreamer, that one.”

John smiles from a faraway memory. It sounds like something Mary would've passed on to their son. “He's a good worker once he puts his mind to the task.” He swipes up the mail and sends off a salute from his temple. He wants to stay indoors but it's hotter inside than it is outside. That small amount of time in front of the fan-blown breeze makes him crave the inside of the motel room, where he knows Dean's been in charge of controlling the air conditioning.

The Impala sits dark and dusty in front of the room next to their rented room. It's a trick he's learned to throw off anyone who tails him out of revenge or curiosity. John heads to the trunk to open the lid and unburden the green Army sack he's been lugging around since midnight last night. Sammy wants him to use his old backpack from school, because the thick puke-green material stinks as the years go on. Dean always tries to pack the bag with everything he's learned John needs for a hunt. And sometimes just a search for a hunt. The only thing John never packs is his notebook.

There's nothing here. The town is barren of folk and of curses and hauntings. It's a relief for John as he's been dreaming of spending some time with his boys as it's coming close to their mother's birthday. He hates going on a hunt whenever the days that were special to her come around—their wedding anniversary, her birthday, his birthday, the boys' birthdays. About the only day he didn't mind being outdoors and hunting the supernatural was the anniversary of her death.

As he unpacks the bag, he's noticing that as he places the guns away along with their ammo, his hands are actually shaking. It's not from nerves, he knows. It's probably from a night of no sleep; he's more exhausted than he's willing to admit and he's been praying to Mary for the last five hours to keep him awake, alert and upright. Like always, she's been there for him, guiding him back to their boys. Always back to Dean and Sam.

John shuts the trunk lid, patting the black lacquered surface as if to smack the backside of a human being. The Impala's been a good, trusted friend. He almost singes his palm as he realizes that the bodywork has been in direct sunlight for going on four hours. It's nearing noon; the sun is higher and hotter at this time of the day.

He takes out his single key, near empty sack hooked over his right shoulder and notebook clasped in his right hand. The minute he opens the door, he's overcome by cool air. He inhales and exhales the manufactured breeze. His eyes dart over to the kitchenette table, where leftover remnants of lunch sit. John isn't hungry as much as he's thirsty and he's been craving cheap local beer since he was a mile close to the motel. He never buys it himself, but somehow Dean's figured out a way to coerce complete strangers to buy him cases of beer. Or Dean steals them outright when John's not around. Either way, John's thankful that Dean takes care of him like Mary would have if she had been alive.

John throws the sack on a chair in the tiny living room, then wanders over to the area where a makeshift desk has been constructed. He's tacked a map of United States to the wall and marked off with pins where he's been and where he plans on going. The desk surface is littered with stacks and piles of books and papers; there's no rhyme or reason to anything. John knows if Dean or Sammy have touched anything; he's always found order in chaos. He's had to; it's been the only way he survives.

He sets down the notebook, leaving it exactly where he meant it to go as he will fill in blanks and do more research after he's had a few hours of sleep. An old injury in his lower back is starting to throb and the pain ebbs and flows on down to his knees and ends up hovering around ankles and the soles of his feet. It's calling out for him to sit down and take off his shoes—old steel-toed boots he used to wear on a daily basis in his old full-time job at the garage. They're as old as Sammy is now, but John's more willing to buy the boys new things than spend then money on himself.

As he heads toward the back bedroom, he pauses to consider if he needs the bathroom before or after he takes a short nap. He doesn't feel the urge to go, so he trudges on toward the bedroom. The door is partially closed, so he taps lightly on the paneling to open it wider. There are two double beds in the room, sharing each side of the space. One is for the boys, the other is for him. The thing is that when he looks at where Dean and Sammy have decided to sleep, he learns his bed has been overtaken by two sleeping forms.

He smiles, simply because whenever he can stand looking at the products of he and Mary's love, he feels a surge of pride and hope. A “hope” that the sons he leaves to this world carry on his legacy. He wishes he could've given them a normal life, but unfortunately that choice had been taken from him. If he's truly nostalgic, he remembers the mornings of sitting in the heirloom rocker in Sammy's nursery and cradling him so close to his chest their heartbeats merged. Dean would wander in, hearing the noises of one of his parents up and trying to get his baby brother back to sleep.

Just like now, with Dean resting higher on the bed to curl completely around Sammy's tiny body, Dean's ever-watchful and careful of his little brother's fretful sleeping. Even more so when John makes it Dean's daily routine to shadow his brother and make sure no one and nothing hurt or harmed Sammy. John feels his eyes brim with moisture at the sight—his bed, Dean spooned behind Sammy, Sammy curled into a ball tight as a roly-poly bug. He leans on the door-jamb, rubbing his palms together to bring the bond to his face to block out the signs of deep-seeded emotions pouring forth. If he stops for any length of time, and just stares, he knows he'll cry uncontrollably.

He sees that his hands are dirty and his nail-beds are atrociously blackened, like from grease. He needs to go wash his hands before he even thinks about falling asleep and letting that mess settle on his skin. In the bathroom, he grabs for the Lava soap bar and scrubs until his flesh is raw. He's not sure how long he's been in there, but the door creaks open and Dean slips in. John glances at Dean while the keen green eyes watch him for signs of blood or ghost goop—-whatever would've been all over him had he hunted last night. Those sharp eyes trace up John's body, making sure there are no injuries and no need to do more laundry as he's just finished a load yesterday.

“Anything?” Dean's voice is still stuck in puberty, but the deepness is somewhere in the back. It comes out when he talks in the dark or when he wakes up out of a deep sleep.

“Nuthin'.” John makes certain to smile down at Dean to let him know he's fine, he'll be okay. He's only tired and wants sleep. As he lets the warm water wash off the suds, he still notices that he can't get his hands clean enough. He feels like Lady Macbeth and her attempt at washing the murderous blood off her hands. He chuckles deeply and watches as Dean removes his hands from the side of the porcelain sink ledge and places his small body in front of him; Dean is going to take over the duty for John, like he does everything else.

John feels that ache in his back again, so he wobbles backward to sit on the closed toilet lid. Once he lands, he's pulled Dean flush to his chest, able to lean his face on the tiny broadening shoulders. Dean smells clean and shower-fresh, even a dash of John's cologne wafts over to him. Curious brown eyes spy the intricate way that Dean cleans under his fingernails and uses an astringent, like Witch Hazel, rather than soap. Dean yanks John upright to bring him back over to the sink and then instructs him to try again with the bar of soap.

John watches Dean's face break out in a grin as his hands manage to look cleaner by the second. What makes Dean happy—even the silly mundane details—makes John happy, because it means he's taught his boys that life is made of simplicity. It's about family and moments; it's about precious time and making the most out of nothing. It's about clinging when all you want to do is let go, because it seems easier than actual work.

“Where'd you learn that?” John's always curious to Dean's mysterious ways.

Dean dips his head, chin to chest, fingers gripping tight to the sink ledge. “Mom.”

John reaches out with his now dry, clean and soft hands to brush a finger over the rounded cheek. Every time he looks at Dean, John sees Mary. It used to be just the hair and skin, now it's become the overall package of manners and character—the way Dean will train eyes on him with a certain stare and John knows his wife is coming through loud and clear. He tries not to tell Dean this too much because Dean has his own memories of Mary, which John refuses to tarnish with heartache.

Sammy's a different story. John tells Sammy every time he does something that his mother used to do. John knows Sammy loves to hear these things because he lights up like it's Christmas. Sammy will turn to Dean to seek agreement or approval. He usually finds his older brother unable to say much or even look at him, but he's happiest to hear those comments all the same.

John hands Dean the small hand-towel to hang up on the towel rack nearby. “How's Sammy?”

“I dunno. He ate lunch but I almost had to force-feed him. I think he's getting sick.”

“A flu bug.”

“Nah...” Dean shrugs, sighing heavily as he hates not being able to figure this kind of stuff out. He knows his father won't know and probably wouldn't take Sam to a doctor. “... I don't know, but he won't talk to me. He just wants to sleep.”

“Was he like this last night?”

“Nope.” Dean leans back to cross arms over his chest. “I almost had to drag him outta bed.”

“Well, come on...” John cups his hand at the back of Dean's head, sending him out the door first. “... let's see if we can't help Sammy together.”

Dean's already at the bedside, shaking Sammy awake.

John wanders up to peer over Dean's shoulder, catching sight of those deep brown eyes so like his own—as Mary was want to tell him constantly. “Hey, Champ.” John smiles broadly down at Sammy, tucking his hands away in his front pockets. “You feelin' okay?”

Dean shuffles out of the way, letting his father take over. He watches as Sam uncurls his legs and he straightens out his little body to tuck a hand under his cheek on the pillow. What stuns him is how much better Sam looks simply by their father being in the room, looming over him. His father sits down at the bedside, green eyes catch the swift move of playfully tickling Sam's belly and tugging him over so that his father could check to make sure on his own that there's no fever or Sam's skin isn't clammy.

Dean wants to stomp off in frustration. If he had known all that was needed to get Sam better was their father, he would've found those hidden keys to the Impala and gone looking for him. He knows if he leaves, John will know he's acting out; so he stays and suffers. It's only slightly hurtful to think that Sam's so attuned to having their father around as much as he wants when he didn't even know or understand what their father was doing. If Sam knew it was for Mom, Dean knows his little brother would stop being such a child.

Dean's not suffering because he's jealous of Sam, it's because his father can do no wrong in Sam's eyes. Dean can do everything for Sam; cook, clean, feed him, bathe him, wash his clothes and put him to bed... but his father would always get the glory. He wants to rage and vent, but he knows that is the true definition of childish, and he knows he's no longer an adult. Age doesn't make a difference to him.

John settles Sammy back on the mattress, asking him to move over a few inches more. Slipping out of his plaid flannel button-down shirt, John undresses to his t-shirt and jeans, climbing into bed behind his youngest son. The minute he settles down on his back, Sammy cuddles to his side.

Dean knows he has to go clean the table and kitchen; he needs to do dishes from this morning and around lunch. If he doesn't do them now, they'll stink up the place in a few hours. Dean bounces off the other mattress, but John's voice stops him in his tracks. “What?”

“Where you goin'?”

“Chores. Dishes.” Dean doesn't look at his father directly but he can detect there's something interesting going on. As he lifts his head, he sees his father's right arm extended on the bed, fingers curled to call him over. “What?” He stomps over, sighing as if he thinks he'll be told what to do along with the dishes.

John bites the inside of his cheek and tugs on Dean's arm to send him toppling over onto the bed. It causes Sammy to giggle and Dean cries out with a stunted laugh. John attempts to curl his arm about Dean's growing body—no longer a child of Sammy's size, Dean is becoming a young man. Someone who could be quite a benefit to him when he was older and out on hunts like he had been last night. Still, John wishes it were different.

He wishes this weren't some shitty motel room in a po-dunk town in the middle of nowhere. He wishes his sons were growing up like other kids their ages and he was a typical neighborhood Dad, carpooling and going to PTA meetings, coaching little league teams and working a nine-to-five job at a local company. John knows he had that life, but had it cruelly ripped right from under him. It would take him years to find equilibrium.

In that moment of thought, John holds both boys close to him, tight. Both are still giggling as they try to find spots to rest in along John's frame. Sammy wants to climb; Dean wants to hibernate against his father's hulking, protective form. John thinks Sammy wants to play, but he actually only wants to peck a sweet kiss to his older brother's cheek, as if quietly apologizing to him for being such a grump all morning. John's a little stunned when he catches Dean's slight blush, because this is obviously some silent communication the boys have worked out between them—-something he had forgotten he and Mary could do, without the Campbells even knowing what was going on behind their backs.

It's the saddest and the happiest moment of John's day.

The Winchester men manage to settle down after a few minutes: John dead center, Dean to his left and Sammy on his right. Sammy falls asleep turned toward John; Dean slumbers easiest with his back to John a strong arm bolted across his belly. They both fall asleep first before John, who feels a sudden burst of energy for another minute or two simply to savor this quiet peaceful time with his boys.

Once John is down, Dean senses the slack in the arm embracing him close, so he rolls over to tuck his hands to his chest and lay along his father's side. As the bed rumbles with Dean's movements and John starts to snore softly, Sammy flips over to show his back to the lot of them—wanting to catch up on the sleep he missed worrying about his father last night. He can rest easy now, every one is home... and safe.

 **~~ &&~~**

Dean wakes up before all of them two hours later. He climbs off the bed and feels the slight chill of the air conditioned air. He picks up his father's shirt, smelling gun metal, fire smoke and grease. It's a heady scent he's grown to love as it doesn't stop him from putting on the shirt to keep warm. He goes out to the kitchen and begins his cleaning. He quietly does the dishes, only running the water at intermittent times. He picks up the living room and looks into the Army sack to make sure nothing was in there that shouldn't be. Next, he rifles through the stack of mail, which was mostly junk. There's a postcard from Missouri and Dean smirks as he keeps flipping front to back—it must be a personal joke between his father and Missouri. He doesn't understand the humor of its meaning.

He moves over to the desk and looks for a stick pin, as he finds one he sticks the postcard on the peg board where he knows his father will spot it. He throws away the junk mail and then picks up the trash bags from the kitchen and the bathroom. As he sets the trash bags outside the door, he cleans up the bathroom. Tucking one bag into the other, Dean walks to the front door and takes the garbage over to the nearby dumpster. He takes his sweet time coming back. He likes to explore but he knows if he stepped one foot away from the motel room his father would yell at him, maybe swat him good once. He still wasn't too old for a good spanking.

Dean checks the Impala, making sure all the doors were locked and the trunk was closed right. He looks under the chassis and down near the tailpipe to make sure there are no leaks. He walks around to kick the tires looking for flats. He smiles at the dark beauty hoping for the one day she could be his to drive without his father hogging the wheel. Dean already knows how to drive her, now he only needs to be given the opportunity to show he can go hunting in a few years. He wants to go now, but his job was taking care of himself and Sam—Sammy, as his father liked to call him. Dean hates that name; it sounded childish and too cutesy. It was what Mom called Sam, so his father wanted to carry on the tradition—maybe.

When he returns to the room, Dean shuts off the air conditioner, because there's a decent breeze blowing outdoors. It's cold enough in the front room and the two windows are in the back bedroom. He goes back to the bedroom to open the windows to let the lukewarm breeze in. He pulls the shade up further, then sets aside one of the sheer drapes to look outside. His view is nothing but flat plains of landscape, with a mountain in the distance. He knows somewhere out there is a highway calling out to him to be driven upon. He hates when they're not moving, when they're steady and still—like they might be making a “home” here. He hates it because it reminds him of what he no longer has. It makes him want things; it makes him want people he knows he can't have back.

Folding his arms, Dean leans on the windowsill to rest his chin on his hands to stare out the screen. He won't leave the window open for long, but he knows it's important to let the air conditioner rest or it will overheat or the room will freeze and one of them will cultivate a cold. He turns his head to the right and lays his head down and closes his eyes as he feels the breeze pelt his face.

John is the next person who wakes up—a half hour later. Sammy's off on the other side of the bed, draped in every direction, face down on the mattress and bed sheet, dead to the world—nothing and no one could wake him up. Earlier, John had tried to roll over onto his right side to bring Sammy closer to his body, but there was a wild streak of independence in his youngest son that he felt he had to let flourish, even when John felt like clinging. He reaches backward and feels air. Not only air but a breeze. He rolls a bit to his left and catches sight of Dean falling asleep in the window, looking outside. He frowns, because he knows that Dean woke himself only to do his chores, and now he's refusing to come back to bed because he feels like he needs to be awake to turn the air back on. His perfect little soldier.

Landing on his elbow, John groans out his agony as he rolls off the bed to stand. Once he's upright, he wanders over to Dean and lays a gentle hand on the slouched back. The second he touches Dean, he's falling off the sill; John's quick reflexes belies the fact he had just woken. He effortlessly sweeps Dean into his arms, much like he used to do when he was Sammy's age. John recalls the days they played in their wide, expansive backyard of freshly mowed grass. He actually sees the sheer giddiness that once used to don his eldest son's face and now he stares at dark shadows under soft lashes and a ruddiness to once colorful skin. He's slowly turning his son into himself; he knows it, it scares him.

With a catch to his throat, John cradles Dean closer to his chest, rocking him as he stands in the middle of the room. He hates himself for what he knows he's done; he already knows Dean is beginning to hate him, yet he obeys. Why? That's all he wants to know is... why?

It must be Mary's doing. It has to be. There's nothing left inside John Winchester that's redeemable; not at this point in time.

John switches from cradling Dean to holding him to his chest, legs around his waist and arms draped over his shoulders. Dean doesn't waken, he shifts to and fro trying to find a comfortable niche in John's neck. Gradually, John makes his way back to the bed, slowly climbing onto the mattress backward. He wants to keep holding Dean like this; he's been missing these precious moments during their impressionable childhoods. He feels he can hold Sammy like this because he still needs it. With Dean, John is scared he's too late; the time's passed and cannot be rewound.

He lays against pillows and headboard, with Dean hanging off his body. His hands rubbing the back, fingers combing through shorn dirty blond locks. He feels Dean's even breathing, the soft burst of air out of nostrils and the slight opening of his mouth in deep slumber.

Good kid... great kids—both of them. John loves them both... to death.

John looks to Sammy who has now rolled onto his back again, still sleeping in wild abandon. A tiny smile is released as tears fill brown eyes and a hand cups the back of Dean's head to bring the shape to quaking lips for a tender kiss.

“Oh, Mary... what have I done?” John closes his eyes and holds onto Dean tighter, praying to the only higher power he has the last of his faith in—Mary. “... please, forgive me...”

 **~ &~the end**


End file.
